


Speak only if it can improve upon the silence

by NyaNya



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Ficlet, M/M, Silence, no dialogues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 16:46:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6528112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyaNya/pseuds/NyaNya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes doesn't speak for days on end, and sometimes John Watson manages to make him talk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Speak only if it can improve upon the silence

Speak only if it can improve upon the silence.

So said Sherlock when John first moved in, when he still tried to do small talk like a normal human being. But then John quickly realized Sherlock was nothing like a normal human being, and he gladly gave up the small talk.

And true to his word, sometimes Sherlock doesn’t talk for days on end.

He doesn’t speak when John asks him if he minds his going to the pub with Lestrade and Stamford, who had turned out to be surprisingly good drinking buddies.

He doesn’t speak when Mrs Hudson asks him about his current case, and makes tea and biscuits sort of happen, simply waves her away if he’s in a foul mood or raises a hand if he cares to show his appreciation.

He doesn’t speak when John asks him if he wouldn’t mind putting his goddamn thumbs on the fridge’s bottom shelf for the hundredth time for god’s sake.

He doesn’t speak when John tells him it’s late and he’s tired, he’s off for bed, there’s some leftover Japanese if you want, don’t stay up too late for this case, love.

He doesn’t speak when he draws his violin and plays away, letting the piece of music soothe his mind and allowing him not to think for once, and John doesn’t speak either, breath-taken as always. 

He doesn’t speak when John wakes up from a nightmare, clinging to him as he escapes drowning in his fears, tense from the horrors that still live fresh in his mind, he doesn’t speak as no word can heal as much as taking his John in his arms and strokes his partner back to sleep.

But when John gets closer, puts a hand on his knee and strokes his thighs with an unmistakable longing, when John runs a hand in his hair and caresses the nape of his neck, when John plants increasingly firm kisses along his jaw, when John invades the skin under his shirt and makes him forget why he was fully clothed, when John cups his bottom and grinds his loin, when John touches the secret skin where he wants him to be and finally strokes and licks and sucks and pushes and breaks him apart – all notion of sacred silence dissolves and Sherlock speaks John’s name, over and over.


End file.
